


every time the sun comes up (i'm in trouble)

by liquidmeasure



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Blood, Blood Drinking, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-04-28 23:27:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5109434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liquidmeasure/pseuds/liquidmeasure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He’s already got his hackles up, like a pavlovian response to Zayn’s interfering. He’s just…amped up tonight. Feels like he can’t slow down. Like he’s a big ball of potential energy and needs someone to exhaust it on. There’s no one in the bar to chat up and he’s not interested in pulling tonight anyway…doesn’t want the bother of muddling through a conversation with a complete stranger, of tucking away his sharp bits and playing nice and taking a warm body home just so he can pretend for a night that his flat isn’t so cold and empty and winter isn’t just around the corner.</i><br/> </p><p>Or: the uni au where everything is regular-style, except Zayn is a vampire and Louis' just found out by accident...</p><p>Title is from the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fDW-W2J84Hc">Sharon Van Etten song...</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	every time the sun comes up (i'm in trouble)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wellthatlookslikefun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellthatlookslikefun/gifts).



Louis is melting.

He’s been melting for some time now, but he’s sunken nearly to eye-level with the battered oak of the pub table and that might mean it’s time to readjust…or maybe call it a night. Or something. But Louis doesn’t want to move and he doesn’t want to leave, so he peers at Harry over the table and squints and wrinkles his nose and says “put some tunes on the jukebox, for the love of god.”

“What? You do it, I’m having a nice conversation.”

“You’re talking about GOLF. No one cares about golf.”

“ _I_ care about golf.”

“You don’t count, Niall.”

“What would you rather we talk about then, Lou?” Harry picks a stray something off the rim of his pint and smiles sleepily. “I mean…It’s late. Maybe we should call it, you know?”

Louis thinks of the walk back to his flat, his cold sheets, the way the air outside has gone sharp suddenly and it all feels like proper fall and properly depressing. He thinks of the burnt out bulb in the hallway that leads to his door and the sounds the radiator makes in the morning, like someone’s being murdered inside his bedroom wall.

“Nooooooo. Stay.”

Harry peers over the table at him and frowns suspiciously.

“Why are you melting? What are you doing down there?”

“Nothing. Look it’s fine. I’ll put something on.”

He lets himself slide down out of the booth and crouches on the floor under the table for a moment, studying his surroundings, enjoying the cramped quarters and the strange in-between feeling of sitting in a space that’s not meant for him. He counts their knees, eyes Harry’s weathered black skinnies, Zayn’s blue jeans, Niall’s…what is Niall wearing? Sweat shorts?

“Niall what are you wearing?”

Niall’s head appears in the space between the table and the bench seat.

“What’s that?”

“Are you wearing sweat shorts?”

Niall looks confused.

“Yeah, so?”

“Whatever. It’s fine. Everything is fine.”

Louis crawls out from under the table and rights himself. He dusts himself off in a demonstrative sort of way, salutes the four of them and then heads for the jukebox.

The selection is abysmal, but he’ll make due. He pops some money in and punches at buttons and watches the little carousel catalog flip its pages and considers. The Sex Pistols seems a bit obvious. But it is like…wake-up music. And Louis doesn’t want the night to be over yet. He doesn’t want to be alone. He punches in the first two numbers.

“You’re not putting on fucking God Save the Queen.”

“Oh Christ, here we go.”

Zayn tugs Louis’ hand away from the buttons like he’s rescuing someone from an impending disaster. Like he’s doing Louis some great service rather than being enormously irritating. His hands are frigid and Louis cries out a little in protest.

“Get your ice cube hands off of me!”

“Stop trying to put crap on the hi-fi.”

Louis laughs.

“On the ‘hi-fi’? Are you my fucking gran?”

“Yeah. Look, let me help you pick.”

“God you are such an irritating bastard.”

Zayn shrugs and punches at the buttons, biting at his lip like he’s concentrating. Like this is rocket science and not picking tunes at two in the morning in a grimy basement pub. Louis wants to shove him out of the way and tell him to piss off, but he doesn’t. If Zayn’s picking the music, that’s something to argue about, at least. And if there’s anything that will keep the night going, it’s a bit of back and forth with Zayn.

It’s not like Louis _enjoys_ arguing with Zayn. Or like…it’s not like he seeks it out anyway. It’s just like…what they do? They disagree. They needle each other and get under the skin. Louis can’t help it and he supposes Zayn can’t help it either. They’re like a match made in heaven: an insufferable know-it-all and a born contrarian. It’s been like that since they first met a few months back, the night Harry dragged Zayn out of their evening class on advanced syntax all the way down to the pub and presented him like a leather-jacketed raven haired trophy. _“Look! I made a friend! A cool one!”_

They’d spent most of that evening arguing over themes in Victorian era literature, of all things, which Zayn fancied he knew a lot about despite being a linguistics major arguing with a fucking graduate-level in history. Louis had gotten so worked up that night that Liam had come out from behind the bar and whacked him on the head with a rag. Told him to keep his voice down. It’s just…Zayn has this infuriating way about him. He argues about shit like he just _knows_. Like he’s got some kind of impossible first-hand experience that he and _only_ he is privy to. Like he’s not just been wasting time staring at Wikipedia entries or googling under the table like all the rest of them.

Louis watches Zayn’s hands move over the buttons as he works his way through the catalog and punches in combos. They’re graceful, thin and smooth in a pleasing way. It’s a shame they’re so fucking frigid. It’s a shame Zayn is such an arrogant tosser in general, really. He’s not totally terrible to look at.

Louis takes a drink of his beer and grimaces.

“The Man Who Sold the World? What’s that like a Nirvana cover? Why not just put on the original?”

“Oh my god. Louis.”

“What? Look, if you’re hijacking my fucking play, I should be allowed an opinion.”

“It’s David Bowie, you idiot. He wrote the song.”

Louis feel his cheeks go a little red.

“Whatever. Move over.”

Zayn puts his hands up in an exasperated sort of way and steps aside, heading back toward the table. Louis can’t even see what else Zayn’s picked, which drives him mad. He’s got two songs left, and he punches through the catalog and chooses a couple at random, pretending to deliberate but just wanting to be done with it. He’s already got his hackles up, like a pavlovian response to Zayn’s interfering. He’s just…amped up tonight. Feels like he can’t slow down. Like he’s a big ball of potential energy and needs someone to exhaust it on. There’s no one in the bar to chat up and he’s not interested in pulling tonight anyway…doesn’t want the bother of muddling through a conversation with a complete stranger, of tucking away his sharp bits and playing nice and taking a warm body home just so he can pretend for a night that his flat isn’t so cold and empty and winter isn’t just around the corner.

When he gets back to the table, Harry and Zayn are talking about something from class. Some test coming up. Boring linguistics stuff. Niall is tapping his fingers in time with the music against the side of his glass and staring down at the table like he’s lost in thought or about to fall asleep. Louis bumps him roughly with one shoulder as he sits back down.

“No school talk.”

“Bloody hell, Louis.” Harry rolls his eyes. “Will you let us live?”

“I don’t want to think about school. Talk about something else.”

The song ends and switches over and it’s quiet for a moment. Then the first of Zayn’s songs starts up.

“Ha! Legend. Did you pick this, Louis?” Niall perks up and pulls his hands away from his glass. He mimes riffing on a guitar and mouths along with the music. “ _I could go east I could go west it was aaaaall up to me to decide…_ ”

Louis makes a sour face.

“What the fuck, Zayn?”

Zayn sips at his beer calmly. He’s not looking at Louis. It’s deliberate and infuriating.

“You put on fucking _Bob Seger_?”

“Fucking love Bob Seger. YES.” Niall is gyrating in his seat, bumping Louis with his elbow every time he strums his invisible guitar. Louis elbows him back roughly.

“He’s a bootleg Bruce Springsteen. He’s a fucking hack. Are you high??”

Zayn’s eyes go wide over the rim of his glass and Louis understands that he’s said the wrong thing. Or the right thing. Or something. He understands that it’s going to be a long night.

 

___

 

“You cannot fucking argue that Springsteen didn’t perfect the form!”

 

“I’m not arguing that, you wanker! I’m saying that Bob Seger released Night Moves BEFORE Springsteen even had a breakout hit! Seger literally _preceded_ Springsteen. You cannot contest that!”

“I’m not! What I’m saying is that it doesn’t _matter_.”

“It doesn’t---Jesus! You're a piece of work. Listen, Seger was touring the Midwest playing fucking Turn the Page when the Boss was playing dive bars in Jersey and the E Street Band wasn’t even a fucking _thing_. To say that Seger is—“

“I think that…” Niall’s voice sounds a little sleepy. A little far away. “I don’t think you lads are having the same argument.”

“No, it’s not that, Niall. Louis is just _wrong_.”

“Oh! Ok. Listen, pal--” Louis continues, his voice getting louder. He’s talking about style and influence and something about the evolution of tone and it’s all bullshit probably, he’s not even sure what his point is. He just knows he can’t let Zayn win.

“But you’re not…”

“Niall, it’s ok. I’ve given Liam all my money. We should go.”

Louis stops mid-sentence and looks up at Harry.

“What? But it’s not even—“

“It’s late, Lou, and I’m tired. And Niall is falling asleep. Do you want to call it a night?”

“But we’ve got like six songs left.”

Harry looks over at Zayn, who tips his half-full pint apologetically.

“Got this to finish. And we’ve got six songs left, so…”

Harry drags Louis upright and retrieves Niall from the back of the booth. He shakes his head regretfully and waves.

“Okay. Do whatever you want, you idiots. Just don’t kill each other.” 

“No promises.” Zayn is talking into his beer. He sounds so fucking _calm_. That’s maybe what drives Louis the craziest. The way he’s so fucking sedate, even when Louis is half standing, banging his fists on the table and yelling about some point he’s got to drive home that may or may not even matter.

 

___

 

Harry and Niall go and Louis and Zayn stay, and they argue. They argue over David Bowie and over the meaning behind Ziggy Stardust. They argue over the death of Kurt Cobain. They argue over Lana Del Rey and whether she’s a feminist and halfway through that one, Louis looks over and a whole table full of birds is just _glaring_ at them and he realizes they sound like complete assholes, but what the fuck is he supposed to do, relent? Let Zayn win?

The last song starts, and Louis doesn’t even remember picking it, but it’s absurd. It’s Dance This Mess Around by the B-52’s and halfway through, Louis realizes that he’s run out of steam. He can’t find an inroad to a disagreement, so they just sit there and sip at their pints. Zayn makes a face like he’s in pain and Louis wonders if he’s had too much to drink. Louis can’t recall him really drinking much. Could swear he’s just been nursing that one pint all evening.

“You alright?”

The birds at the next table are standing up, hugging each other and slipping into their coats. A little wobbly. A little watery. One of them laughs as she pushes out the door into the night and Zayn glances over. He grimaces.

“Yeah, I’m good. I should take off. Gotta like…get some sleep.”

Louis shrugs. He takes a swig of his pint and swallows.

“Yeah cool. I’m about ready. Lemme just--”

“Nah, it’s good.” Zayn tosses some bills down on the table and stands. “That should cover me. I’ll see you.”

Then he’s gone. It’s like…the creepiest thing. One moment he’s standing there, pulling crumpled bills out of his pockets and zipping up his jacket and the next he’s out the door. Like a ghost. Louis tries not to be offended. It’s fine. It’s not like Zayn’s his date. It’s not like he’s being left in the lurch.

He finishes his pint and adds a few more bills to the pile on the table. Notices that Zayn’s left far too much. He stands and waves at Liam and he’s about to follow Zayn out the door when he looks down at the booth and sees the scarf. Zayn’s scarf.

“Fucking _idiot_.”

He grabs it and hurries toward the door.

 

___

 

The air is sharp and cold and a little damp in a way that cuts right through Louis’ jacket and down into his bones. He shivers and scans the street, looking for any sign of Zayn, but there’s nothing. Just the dark pavement and the glow of the sodium lamps and the far-off sound of people making their way back to flats that are occupied or empty or warm or cold. Louis stands there for a moment, uncertain. He should find Zayn. He could walk in the direction of Zayn’s place, but he’s not certain which direction that would be. Has he ever seen Zayn’s flat?

There’s a banging and a woman screams and he nearly jumps out of his own skin before he understands that it’s just someone coming out of the bar. That the screaming is just the song. His song, the one he picked, echoing over the pavement. Everyone’s going home and the B52’s are screaming about limburger and he’s just standing here like an idiot who can’t figure out what to do.

He puts the scarf around his neck and starts walking in the direction of his own flat. The wool of the scarf is warm, and Louis thinks that maybe Zayn was sitting on it, or perhaps it’s just the leftover heat from the pub. He buries his jaw in it and it smells nice. Like cloves or spice. Like something old in a pleasant way.

He tries not to think about the fact that he’s got Zayn’s scarf wrapped around his face. That he’s like…huffing it. That he likes what he smells. He’s just trying to keep warm, honestly. He’s just holding it for Zayn until he can track him down. Everything’s fine.

There’s a noise then, coming from a doorway to his left. A soft laugh and something that sounds like a pigeon cooing. One of the girls from the bar, maybe. Holed up in an alcove, talking on the phone. Organizing some kind of late-night rendezvous…

“That’s a pretty name…Zayn…does it mean something?”

Louis nearly trips over his own feet. _What the fuck?_ Is Zayn fucking _pulling_? Is that why he left in such a hurry?

“Christ.” Louis mutters it into the scarf. He’s not sure what to do. If he walks past the doorway, they’ll spot him and everything will be weird and terribly awkward and he’ll have to say something about the scarf and that all sounds completely mortifying. He wants to disappear. Or run the other way.

“It means _beauty_.” Zayn’s voice is soft, just loud enough to hear. A little muffled, like he’s talking into someone’s skin.

Louis thinks he might wretch. He shouldn’t have to listen to this shit, it’s embarrassing. _It means beauty_? What sort of fucking cheesy chat up line—

He’s walking toward the doorway before he even has a chance to think about it, tugging the scarf off his neck and holding it out.

“Oy! Zayno!” He rounds the corner and the two of them come into view and yeah, it’s disgusting. Zayn’s got the girl backed up against the wall and she’s making some kind of delicate keening noise and biting her lip like she’s about to float away in ecstasy and Zayn’s face is like…glued to her throat. He’s got one hand on the small of her back, holding her steady, pressing her against him, and Louis feels suddenly like a voyeur. Like he’s intruding on something much more intimate than a back-alley make out session. It’s…weirdly hot, the way they’re pressed together. The flush at Zayn’s throat and the way her eyes are softly shut.

She doesn’t react when Louis calls out, but Zayn jolts a bit in surprise and pulls off of her. She slips a little as his grip falters, like she might slide right down the brick wall to the ground. Zayn struggles to keep her upright as he looks over at Louis and—

And what? Louis isn’t certain what he’s seeing. It doesn’t make sense, really. Zayn’s mouth is smeared with something black and oily and slick-looking. He can’t make it out in the dark, but none of it adds up. Is he…is he eating chocolate off her neck? That’s not…

Zayn looks mortified, or angry. Or embarrassed maybe. Louis isn’t sure. Then Zayn opens his mouth to speak and Louis sees the whiteness of his teeth and the bright crimson red smeared across them and he understands that this isn’t some kinky chocolate thing, that this is something violent. He understands it just as he drops the scarf and suddenly every ounce of blood in his body is rushing to his head and the world is shrinking. Everything is receding into a field of black. The scene in front of him becomes a single pixel of light and Louis feels his legs failing him just as Zayn mutters something that sounds like “oh bloody fucking hell”.

Louis thinks it’s simultaneously the most accurate thing Zayn’s ever said and the understatement of the year. Then his vision goes black and he doesn’t think anything at all.

 

___

 

The radiator is making the noise again. A loud metallic banging, like someone’s being murdered with a pipe wrench.

Louis feels like someone’s murdered him with a pipe wrench.

He opens his eyes and the first thing he sees is his coffee table, so that’s alright then, he’s at home. He’s lying on his side on his sofa and there’s a mug sitting in front of him and he can see the steam curling up and out of it, rising toward the ceiling. The flat is dark, but in a makeshift sort of way. Someone’s drawn all the curtains to keep the daylight out. Louis can see a sliver of grey coming in from the crack in the fabric, casting a thin line across the battered wooden floor.

“Hey.”

Louis jolts at the sound. Someone here. Someone in the flat with him. He struggles to right himself and finds that he’s been covered in a blanket. His legs are all tangled up in it. Who the fuck—

It comes rushing back suddenly. The bar. Zayn’s abrupt exit and Louis chasing after him with the scarf. The girl in the doorway. Oh jesus. Was he…

Louis sits up and pushes at the blanket, trying to untangle himself. He looks up and there’s Zayn, lurking in the darkness, clutching a mug in his hands, sort of curled up at the other end of the sofa. He looks sheepish. Tentative and apologetic. Louis’ mind is a mess of sharp teeth and red blood and he feels something like panic rising in him. He presses back against the arm of the sofa and hugs his knees to his chest reflexively, mimicking Zayn in a way. Two nervous compact balls of person. Or one person and one…who the fuck even knows…

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“You like…fainted.”

“What?”

“You _proper_ passed out. I’ve like _never_ seen that happen in real life.”

“WHY ARE YOU HERE? What the fuck was that??”

“Shit…Louis, it’s okay. Calm down.” He leans forward and sets his mug on the table, then raises his hands, palms out, like he’s trying to show Louis that he’s not armed. But it’s not Zayn’s _hands_ Louis’ worried about, is it?

“You went all like…swoony and you hit your head and I didn’t want to just leave you, so I brought you home and…” he glances over at the window. At the curtains, shut tight against the morning light. “I’m sort of like…stuck here now.”

“What did you do to that girl?”

“She’s fine. She went home.”

“You were EATING her, Zayn.”

“Christ. I was just…listen it’s _okay_. I wasn’t going to hurt her.”

“You had her blood all over your face! What kind of kinky—“

“It’s not like that! Louis, look at me.”

Louis doesn’t want to look at him. It’s creepy, the way he’s sitting there, perched in the shadows like some sort of Dracula. _Oh fuck_. Louis doesn’t want to go there. He doesn't want to put two and two together.

“Louis.” Zayn reaches back and fiddles with the lamp on the end table and suddenly the sofa is bathed in soft electric light and Louis looks at him properly and…

It’s just Zayn. Just regular old Zayn. His expression is soft with concern and his hair is falling over his face and he’s taken his jacket and shoes off. There’s a small hole at the tip of one of his socks where the knit has gone thin and his eyes look bright in the dark of the flat, liquid and amber.

“Louis…I’m a vampire, okay?”

Louis doesn’t mean to faint a second time. It just sort of happens.

 

__

 

 

“I’ve put some paracetamol there on the table. I think your tea’s gone cold but…I can make you a fresh one if you’d like.”

Louis sits up and rubs at his head. It’s throbbing like he’s knocked it on something. And he has, hasn’t he? That’s what Zayn said, before Louis passed out a second time. Jesus. He feels embarrassment rising in his chest. 

“Did I…”

“You went swoony again. You’re like a proper Victorian lady. Is your corset too tight?”

“Fuck you.” It comes out like a groan, not as sharp as he meant it to be.

“Ha. Take the pills, then. Your head’s probably throbbing, yeah? You drank a fair bit last night.”

Louis takes the mug and the medicine off the table. He pops the pills in his mouth and swallows and the tea isn’t quite cold. About body temperature. It makes him feel like gagging suddenly, thinking of it. Body temperature, like a person’s blood. He shudders.

“Are you going to eat me?”

He says it quietly, and he hates how timid he sounds. How afraid. He wants to be brave.

Zayn laughs explosively then, and it’s obnoxious enough to get Louis irritated again. He glares over at Zayn.

“Jesus! Pipe down, I’ve got a headache, you wanker.”

Zayn covers his mouth with one hand and closes his eyes, then he takes his hand away and smiles.

“I’m not going to _eat_ you. Louis, I’m not…I’m not a monster, ok?”

“Not a monster, just a fucking bloody _vampire_? Ok. Great. Glad we cleared that up.”

“It’s not my--It’s just a like…dietary restriction ok?”

Louis can’t help but laugh at that. It’s so absurd. He feels an urge to argue rising in him. To engage Zayn in some sort of back and forth over the definition of _monster_ or what qualifies as a dietary restriction. That would feel safe, maybe. Familiar. But he just sips at his lukewarm tea.

“If you’re not going to eat me, why are you still here?”

Zayn sets his mug down and sighs.

“I told you, I’m stuck.”

He looks over at the window in a pointed way and Louis follows his gaze. Something clicks.

“You are taking the piss.”

“I’m not. I can’t go out there.”

“This is unbelievable. You are fucking joking. You can’t go outside in the daylight?”

Zayn just shrugs. Louis racks his brain, auditing the past three months. Has he ever seen Zayn in the day time? Has he ever seen Zayn outside a dark dingy pub?

“Yeah. I can’t go out in the daylight. Sorry if that’s like _inconvenient_ for you. I was just trying to help.”

“What? Don’t put this on _me_ , you prick. You were the one eating people out in the middle of the street!”

“We were in an _alcove_.”

“You were in _public_. _Eating_ people and leaving your shit everywhere in the pub and making people clean up after you. God! You’re such a—“

Zayn is laughing at him again. He’s got a hand pressed to his mouth like he’s trying to shut himself up but he’s sort of like…giggling despite himself.

“Oh my god, you won’t stop. You’re so fucking dramatic. You _never_ stop whinging.”

Louis scowls and sits back, clutching at his mug.

“Well I’ve got plenty to whinge about, don’t I? Christ.”

They sit in silence for a moment and Louis feels himself relaxing in increments, like the longer he sits here, the more things settle. The further they get from last night’s atrocities and the closer they get to just…them. Just Zayn and just Louis. Alone together…

“This is so weird.”

“Yeah, sorry. It’s a lot to like…process.”

“Yeah but like, I don't think we’ve ever hung out. Just the two of us. You’ve never been over before or like—“ Louis stops mid-sentence. Something dawns on him suddenly. “Wait. How did you get in here? Don’t you lot have to be like…invited in or whatever?”

Zayn just stares at him like he’s crazy.

“What? Is that not a thing?”

“No, it’s a thing. Just…I’ve been over here before, you tosser.”

“What? When?”

“A couple weeks ago when Niall and I came to get you before that one gig in Battersea.”

Louis thinks. A gig? In Battersea? Did they come upstairs? Or did he go downstairs to meet them? There was something…Louis left his jacket in the flat and had to go back up.

“Huh.”

“How did you think I knew where you lived?”

“Oh yeah.” He sips his tea. “True.” 

Zayn presses himself up off the sofa and moves over to the record shelf against the wall. He kneels and paws through the albums.

“Glad I made such a strong impression.”

Louis just shrugs and taps at his temple.

“Sorry. Banged my head.”

“Sure. I’m gonna put some music on if that’s alright. We’ve got…” he tugs his phone out of his pocket and checks the clock. He grimaces. “…some time to kill.”

He rifles through the records for a bit, tugging sleeves out and studying the covers, then settles on a Big Star record and sets it up on the turntable. Starts it spinning and drops the needle. The speakers come to life and the room fills with music and things feel a little warmer suddenly. A bit more normal. A little less horrific.

But it’s not horrific, is it? Louis should feel weirder about all of it maybe, but it’s just Zayn. Just Zayn the know-it-all, Harry’s friend from class, sitting cross-legged on Louis’ floor, looking through his vinyl.

“I love that you have all this.”

His voice is quiet, a little distracted.

“What?”

Zayn waves the record he’s inspecting in Louis’ general direction and then goes back to studying the liner notes.

“This. Vinyl. It’s cool that you’ve got it.”

Louis shrugs, then he really thinks it over. If Zayn’s a vampire then…

“How old are you?”

“Hmm?”

“How old are you actually?”

Zayn tilts his head to one side like he’s thinking about it. Like he’s counting years or something, and that in itself speaks volumes. Louis feels uneasy again suddenly. Pushes it away.

“Ha. I don’t really know. I mean, not exactly. Four hundred something maybe. I lose track.  I sleep a lot sometimes…don’t go out much.”

“What like…you get depressed?”

Zayn laughs and makes a “huh” noise.

“Hey yeah…maybe. I missed like…the whole 60’s practically. I don’t know what I was thinking. Just got like…tired.”

Louis doesn’t say anything. He sits and listens to the music and Zayn rubs at the side of his neck like he’s got a pain. Like he’s working out a kink. He reaches up and lifts the needle off the record and switches it out for another and the way he moves is deft and familiar, like it’s a thing he’s done a hundred times. He sets the Big Star record aside, on top of its sleeve, and Louis feels a momentary irritation that he didn’t put it back in its proper place. Feels on the verge of saying something about it, then thinks better of it.

“I’m just going to go uh…clean up. Is that alright?”

Zayn looks over his shoulder at Louis and shrugs.

“Yeah…sure.” He starts to turn back to the stereo, then pauses. He looks around again like something has just occurred to him. “Hey look. I’m not--this isn’t some kind of like creepy hostage situation. You know that, right? Do whatever you want. I don’t _want_ to be here. I’ve not got a choice.”

Louis is one part relieved and two parts offended. He doesn’t like the way Zayn’s talking. It’s rude. _He’s_ the one taking up space in Louis’ apartment. Louis isn’t the one who trapped him here. It’s not his fault.

“Well I don’t want you here, but it seems neither of us is getting what we want today, doesn’t it?”

Zayn just glowers at him, as if Louis is the one being rude. He goes back to the record on his lap and mutters something that sounds like “prick” and Louis says “what?”

“Nothing. Go take your shower.”

“Cool. Try not to kill anyone while I’m gone.”

Zayn doesn’t answer.

 

___

 

The bathroom tiles are cold on his feet when he undresses. The door has been closed and the warm air from the apartment has been shut out and it’s like entering a tomb. Somewhere not so comfortable or safe. And that’s mental, isn’t it? If there’s anywhere he’s not safe it’s out there, trapped in a flat with a person who lives on human blood.

He turns the knobs and starts the shower and it makes a banging and whining noise like it’s pulling water out of the bones of the building by force. Like the whole thing might fall apart. Louis wonders how old his building is, exactly. If Zayn is older. What was here before.

The hot water feels like a baptism. Like he’s being reborn. The heat settles into his skin and last night gets a little further away. He lets the water run over his hair and presses at the sore spot on his head gingerly. The paracetamol is working through him, relaxing him, taking the pain away and leaving behind just the soft ragged edge of a sleepless night.

When he steps out of the shower, he can just hear the music coming from the living room and it’s muffled and spare and pleasant. Hazy grey morning music. He stands there for a moment--wrapped in a bath towel, letting the steam curl around his body—and he listens. It’s been so long since he woke up with someone this way. Since anyone stuck around to listen to music and waste a day with him. Maybe this can just be that. Maybe it’s better that way.

He dresses and hangs the towel on the rack and heads back out.

Zayn is lying on the floor, holding a record sleeve above his head. Louis sits on the sofa and watches him. Notices Zayn’s put a fresh mug of tea on the table.

“I’ve decided something.”

Zayn glances over at him, then back at the record.

“What’s that?”

“I’m just going to pretend everything is normal.”

Zayn smiles softly. He doesn’t move.

“Everything _is_ normal.”

Louis bites at the edge of a nail and nods.

“Okay.”

He sips at the tea and the record plays and he wishes he could look out the window at the world. See that it’s still turning. That everyone’s still out there. But he doesn’t know if that would bother Zayn, or kill him even. He doesn’t know how this all works.

“Do you want something to eat?”

Zayn looks at him then and it’s pointed and a little world-weary. Like Louis is testing his patience. Louis frowns apologetically.

“No…I suppose not, huh? Sorry.”

He picks his phone up off the table and checks his messages. Sees a text from Niall.

 

_you make it home alright? Harry is convinced you killed each other._

 

He clicks on the message and taps out a response.

 

_Fine, just nursing a hangover. No one died._

 

Niall’s response is near-instant.

 

_Did you snog him?_

 

Louis drops the phone into his lap like it’s burnt him.

“You alright?”

He looks over at Zayn, sprawled out on the floor. His tee shirt is riding up at the waist, exposing a bit of his stomach. Louis looks away again and picks up the phone.

 

_Piss off._

 

“Fine.”

He finds some takeout in the fridge and eats it on the sofa while he does some reading for class. Zayn doesn’t move, he just lies there on the floor and Louis wonders if he’s fallen asleep, if he’s in some sort of daytime-induced vampire coma…but then every time the record reaches the end of a side, he’s up and switching it over, replacing it with another, building a little stack of vinyl on the shelf next to the turntable.

It’s…comfortable. Like hanging out alone but better. Louis doesn’t need to entertain Zayn. Doesn’t feel any sort of urge to impress him. Maybe that’s something to do with the involuntary nature of their time together. The way neither of them chose to be here. Or maybe it’s just Zayn. Maybe hanging out with Zayn is like hanging out with no one because he _is_ no one.

Louis looks over at him and he’s so still, lying there on the floor. He wonders if Zayn’s even breathing. If that’s a thing he needs to do. He stares for longer than he probably should, watching for the rise and fall of his chest, then Zayn stirs and Louis looks away, back at the book in his lap. He can’t find his place and gives up after a moment, sets the book aside and reaches for his pack of smokes lying on the table.

Zayn appears at the end of the table just as Louis is lighting up and he nearly drops the match onto his lap.

“Jesus! Make a noise or something.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s creepy. At least like…pretend to be human.”

Zayn picks up the booklet of matches and flips it open.

“I _am_ human.”

Louis takes a drag of his cigarette and watches Zayn, uncertain.

“You are?”

“Yeah. Sure. Can I have one of those?”

Louis nudges the pack across the table at him and nods. Zayn pulls a cigarette out and tucks it between his lips, then lights and match and takes the first drag. When he speaks, his face is a little obscured by the smoke and the light from the lamp on the sidetable hits him just so and he looks very beautiful, like a painting from a long time ago of a saint or a martyr. Louis clears his throat and retrieves his book off the sofa and sets it back in his lap.

“You should quit smoking these. They’ll kill you.”

Louis laughs. He can’t help himself.

“Suppose you’ve not got to worry about that?”

Zayn scoots across the floor and leans his back against the sofa.

“Nah. What are you reading?”

Louis picks the book up and inspects the cover, as if he was checking. As if he doesn’t know exactly what he’s reading.  

“It’s about the Battle of Britain. Firsthand accounts and such.”

Zayn raises his eyebrows.

“Heavy.”

Louis waits. He wonders if Zayn is going to say anything more about it. Then his curiosity gets the best of him.

“Were you…uh…”

Zayn takes a drag of his cigarette and exhales, then looks up at Louis.

“I thought you were pretending things were normal.”

Louis just shrugs.

“Talking about yourself is normal. You’re just like…old.”

“I’m really old.”

There’s a pause, and Zayn takes another drag, then he looks up at the ceiling like he’s trying to remember something.

“I was in uh…Hungary. In 1940. I remember reading about the raids in the paper.”

“Jesus.”

Zayn shrugs and runs a hand through his hair.

“Things were…pretty bad for a long time. I don’t know if you can fathom it, reading it out of a book. The first war was horrific. Then the rest…” He makes a noise that’s halfway between laughter and something more raw, something edged with disgust. “It was an easy time to be a predator, though. Those sorts of stretches always are. Governments being dismantled, atrocities happening everywhere…what’s one or two more, you know?”

Louis shuts the book. He’s not sure what to say. He regrets asking. Feels like he’s overstepped or something.

“Anyway, things got a lot better after the second world war. Medical stuff. It was all so fucking gruesome, you know? Things changed…they started stockpiling blood. If you knew where to look you could get by without like…taking advantage of anyone.” 

Louis frowns.

“But the girl last night…”

Zayn tilts his head regretfully and finishes his cigarette. Stubs it out in the ashtray on the table.

“I really don’t like doing that. It’s just been like…difficult lately? I had a guy at the medical college but he’s gone off to greener pastures so like…”

“You’re free-range for the time being.”

“Ha. Yeah, I suppose so.”

Louis nods. He thinks of the girl. Wonders where she is now. What she remembers. Then Zayn speaks and it’s like he’s read Louis’ mind.

“I don’t _hurt_ them, you know.”

Louis looks down at his own cigarette and sees that it’s become a tube of grey ash. He sets it in the ashtray.

“You just bite them?”

“It’s like…it’s gentler than you would imagine. It’s not painful, and if I do it right I can sort of put them in a state.”

Louis remembers the way she looked, her head tilted back and her eyes shut. Like she was in some kind of ecstasy.

“So you what…you like…roofie them?”

Zayn frowns and picks himself up off the floor. He sits on the sofa and for a moment he looks so comically morose Louis wants to laugh.

“That’s fair I suppose. Like I said I don’t really like doing that.”

“Have you ever like…asked someone? Made it like a...consensual kind of thing?”

“I try not to do that either.”

“But you’ve done it though? You’ve like…been honest with people about it?”

“A few. Over the years. But it gets…complicated. It gets complicated when you connect to someone and the blood drinking can be…intense. It can get weird.”

“Like how? Do they become like your Renfield or something? Do they start eating bugs and calling you master?”

Zayn laughs.

“Nah…no, it’s just an intimate thing. You get sort of attached…and then they get older…”

“And you stay the same age.”

“Yeah.”

“So you…”

“I try not to feed off of people that I…uh… _like_.”

“You mean—“

“People that I have any sort of… _intimate_ interest in. It’s too messy.”

“Do you get intimate at all? With anyone?”

Louis feels strange the minute it’s out of his mouth, like he’s being overly familiar. Zayn’s stuck here with him and now Louis’ grilling him about his love life as if he had any sort of right to it. He thinks of the text from Niall, sitting there in his phone like evidence of a crime.

Zayn just shrugs.

“That’s messy too, isn’t it? Even without the whole vampire thing.”

“Yeah…” Louis takes the mug of tea off the table and sips at it. It’s been steeping too long. It tastes bitter. “Yeah I get that.”

They’re both quiet then. Like there’s nothing more to say. Louis feels a little guilty for prying. It’s not like Zayn asked to be here. Not like he _meant_ to let Louis in on this part of his life. He sets the mug back on the coffee table and stretches. Picks up his book. Reads a sentence. Puts it back down. He looks over at Zayn.

“You wanna get high?”

Zayn is chewing at his lip absently, like he’s lost in thought. He looks over at Louis and for an instant he looks baffled, like Louis is speaking in tongues. Then he nods.

“Yeah. I do.”

 

___

 

“Ha. Harry’s just texted me.”

Louis doesn’t look up. He’s rifling through his Tupperware container full of weed and paraphernalia, sorting things out. It’s a mess. He’s really got to organize.

“What’s he say?”

“He says good morning.”

“It’s like one in the afternoon.”

“He knows I keep a funny schedule.”

Louis pulls out a pack of rolling papers and a bag of shake.

“Oh yeah…true.”

“He also says ‘sorry about Louis, he can be a proper twat’.”

Louis fumbles a bit as he’s sprinkling weed onto a paper and looks over at Zayn, aghast.

“He did NOT.”

“Swear on my mother’s grave.”

Zayn holds the phone out to show him and yeah, there it is. _New message from Harry (B+)_.

Louis wipes the stray shake off the table and resumes rolling the joint.

“Bloody traitorous prick.”

“What should I tell him?”

“Don’t answer him. It’s a trap.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Never mind. Tell him he’s an asshole and you were the one acting like a twat.”

Zayn’s tapping something into his phone.

“I’m telling him it’s alright.”

“Tell him he’s an idiot!”

“I’m telling him not to worry, that I hid the body somewhere they’ll never find it.”

Louis licks at the sticky end of the rolling paper and makes a disgusted noise.

“That’s in poor taste.”

“Well, I’ve sent it. So what’s done is done.”

Louis glances over at the phone again and gives the joint one more roll for good measure.

“What’s that after his name, a grade? Are you grading us by how much you like us or someth--”

He’s figured it out before the sentence is all the way out of his mouth. Zayn looks embarrassed and hits a button on the side of the phone. The screen goes dark and he drops it on the blanket where Louis can’t get at it.

“What the fuck, Zayn?”

“”It’s just for reference, like. Just in case.”

“How do you even--do you know _my_ blood type?”

Zayn looks down at his lap.

“O.”

Louis picks up the matches and tears one off and says “huh” and then lights the joint and inhales. He holds the smoke in his lungs for a moment and passes it to Zayn.

“I always forget that. It’s like...one of those things I can never seem to remember. O. Is that good?”

“What?”

“Is that a good blood type to have?”

Zayn takes a hit off the joint and nods.

“Yeah.” Smoke curls out of his mouth as he speaks. “If we’re talking about like...someone else uh...taking it, it’s the best.”

 

___

 

They smoke the joint, passing it back and forth between them while the music plays, and Louis feels himself unwinding. They talk about Harry and they talk about Niall. They talk about the weather and they talk about politics and all the things that people talk about when they’re just existing. Two humans of a certain age. Nothing strange. No one dead or undead.

“It’s good you’re studying history.”

Zayn’s head is tilted back on the sofa. He’s looking up at the ceiling. Or he’s looking at nothing maybe. Maybe his eyes are closed.

“Hmm?”

“It’s nice. People are so like…content to forget. They’ve got such short memories, you know?”

Louis pulls his knees up to his chest and shrugs.

“I dunno, it’s just always been the thing, sort of. It’s like a whole universe just out of reach? Right behind us. There’s so much there…”

“Yeah.”

“Do you remember a lot? Like…have you seen a lot of like…historical stuff?”

Louis feels like an idiot suddenly. Like a child who can’t find his words. It’s the weed. Or it’s just the conversation maybe. It’s not a conversation you have, is it?

“It’s funny…” Zayn’s voice is soft, a little far away. It sounds nice. They’ve got a Jose Gonzalez record on the player and the guitar is just quiet and loud enough to get under Louis’ skin. To make everything feel a little like a movie. “It’s like…I’ve been around for so long, it seems like I should’ve like…seen more. I think back and I’m like, ‘I could’ve seen Marie Antoinette lose her head. I could’ve sat on stone wall and watched Custer’s last stand’. Shit like that, you know? But it’s like…it’s not history until it’s done. When it’s happening I’m just a person like anyone else, just existing at one point in the world. One position in space. And everything else going on around me.”

He leans forward and taps the joint into the ashtray, then hands it to Louis.

“Most of the time I’m reading about it after the fact, just like you lot. It’s not so different.”

“That’s…yeah.” Louis thinks about it… _really_ thinks about it, for the first time maybe. The reality of a life that never ends. The mundanity of each day on earth. How nothing is like a movie at all.

He looks over and Zayn is smiling up at the ceiling, a little wistful.

“There’s things I miss though, you know? I miss seeing the stars in the middle of London. The smell of tallow and candle wax. Lace. I miss _lace_. Isn’t that the funniest thing?”

Louis takes a drag off the joint and shrugs.

“Dunno. You could still wear lace.”

“Piss off.”

“No I’m serious. You could pull it off.”

“Maybe. Maybe it’ll come back around someday.”

“Do you miss…people?”

“There’s people all over.”

“No, I mean specific people. Who’ve like—“

Zayn’s smile falters a little and Louis wants to take it back. Wants to leave it alone. But it’s already come out of his mouth.

“Yeah…lots. I’ve had to…I’ve left a lot behind.”

Louis just nods. He’ll leave it. He won’t pry.

“Have you ever…made another one of you?”

“Have I ever cloned myself?”

“Shut up. You know what I mean.”

He’s prying. He’s doing just what he doesn’t want to do, but it’s like he can’t help it. He has to know.

“Yeah, once.”

“What happened? Are they still…”

“Dunno…maybe. We sort of lost touch.”

Louis laughs, a little disbelieving.

“You make it sound like you were school chums or something boring like that.”

Zayn is looking down at his hands now, like he’s studying them.

“I mean, it’s not so different is it? It’s life. People come and go in a lifetime. I’ve just got like…a really long one.”

Louis supposes that’s true. That as an abstract idea, living forever seems magical somehow, living off blood seems extraordinary. But maybe in practice it gets old. Just like anything. Maybe it’s the same old thing, just unnaturally protracted. More life to live, more people to come into your life and leave it, accompanied by all the attendant emotions.

“What about you, then?”

“Hmmm?”

“Sorry, I mean the school thing. Why are you studying linguistics?” Louis passes the joint back and considers briefly. “Actually, why are you in school at all? Aren’t you a little old to be matriculating?”

“Ha. Yeah. I am.”

“Have you done it before?”

“Yeah. Three or four times. It’s like a hobby I guess.”

“Jesus. Three or four times? Like a masters?”

“It kills the time. Did a bit of English, some sciences. Medicine…a focus on phlebotomy…” Louis has to laugh at that. It makes so much _sense_. Zayn finishes off the joint and stubs out the roach in the ashtray, then he sits back again, his shoulders loose. “But…I like language. It’s like…always evolving in a cool way, and it would be nice to understand the mechanics of that? I used to be one of those twats who was always correcting peoples’ grammar…thought that language was ‘devolving’ or whatever. It was bullshit. I get that now.”

Louis picks at a loose thread on the hem of his shirt and smiles. He feels good now. Better than good. The weed has smoothed him out and made everything a little softer and slower.

“So you used to be kind of an asshole.”

Zayn laughs.

“Yeah.”

“And a know-it-all.”

“Mmm hmm.”

“Weird. I can’t imagine that at all.”

It doesn’t hurt when the pillow hits his head, but the force of it is a shock. Louis screeches in an embarrassing way and then grabs at the pillow, swinging it back in Zayn’s face. He’s too quick though. He’s got it out of Louis’ hands in an instant and shoved back between his thigh and the arm of the sofa where Louis can’t get at it.

They’re both laughing, and it feels like something in Louis is coming undone in the nicest way he could imagine.

“God…Harry and Niall were so done with our shit last night.”

Zayn laughs like he’s remembering, then he angles his head at the stereo.

“The record needs flipping.”

Louis grimaces and shakes his head.

“I’m not getting up.”

“It’s your house, you can’t ask your guest to flip the record, it’s rude.”

“You’re not my _guest_ , you’re like…an interloper.”

Zayn scoffs and smacks Louis in the thigh with the back of his hand.

“Excuse me? I’m your fucking white knight. Dragged you all the way home, didn’t I?”

Louis makes a sour face.

“Ugh.”

“Go on, then.”

“Uuuuuugh.” He lets himself slide down the cushions, all the way off the sofa to the floor. “Ugh.”

He lies there for a moment and for a moment he remembers last night. Sliding off the vinyl booth and landing under the table. Looking at three sets of legs and feeling like he was accessing an in-between sort of space. Somewhere not quite real. He feels like that now, a little bit. Like being here, being in his flat with Zayn, it’s not quite real life. Like it’s something that exists outside of history. Something transient. Something unique. Then he remembers Niall’s sweat shorts. And the gum on the underside of the table. He’s probably very stoned. He’s probably just not processed any of this yet. Not properly.

He crawls over to the record shelf like he’s crossing a vast desert, just to make Zayn feel extra terrible about making him get up, and he flips the record.  

 

___

 

“Dave Matthews or David Bowie?”

“What? David Bowie. Jesus.”

“Great. Good.”

Louis is lying on his back on the sofa, his legs draped over the arm and dangling in space. He’s not sure how he made his way here, but it’s comfortable. Zayn is sitting just at the crown of his head. Louis can feel him, despite there being an inch or two of space between them, can sense him there…his gravity or something, like they’re two planetary bodies acting on each other. He considers for a moment. Tries to think of a good one.

“Um…Kate Bush or Katy Perry?”

Zayn sighs and Louis knows that he’s rolling his eyes. Can see it so clearly in his mind’s eye.

“Come on. Ask me one that isn’t obvious.”

“Sorry, I’m thinking—“

“I mean, everyone loves Katy Perry.”

“Ugh! Don’t even joke about that.”

“I’m not.”

“Piss off.”

Zayn is laughing, and it sounds all muffled, like he’s covering his mouth. Louis open his eyes for a moment and looks up, just to see if the image of Zayn in his head matches the reality. And yeah…it’s about right. He closes his eyes again.

“Nick Drake…or…” Louis tries to come up with something appropriately uncool. He winces. “Nickelback?”

“Pffff. Wow.”

“Well?”

“Nick Drake.”

Louis nods, then he sighs. Then he shakes his head.

“Yeah. True.”

Zayn doesn’t say anything. Louis feels something at his temple, like a tickling and a pressure, and he understands that Zayn has moved a bit of his fringe out of the way of his face. Louis doesn’t move. He just lies still and lets it happen…like if he reacts, he’ll startle Zayn. Scare him away.

Louis suddenly feels very cemented in this moment. In this place. And a little like he’s spinning away at the same time. The record is popping and cracking and the guitar is gentle but driving forward like a locomotive and it’s like they’re dancing up to the edge of a precipice, the two of them. But also he’s felt like that for months, maybe. Maybe that’s what all the arguing was about. He shuts his eyes tighter and breathes out.

“I’ve got a Nickelback tattoo.”

Zayn laughs in disbelief.

“What?”

Louis doesn’t open his eyes. He just nods and lifts his arm up to show the soft skin on the inside of his bicep. The ink there that’s already fading.

“Huh.”

“It was…a mistake. Mistakes were made.”

“It’s not so bad. _Far away_ …that could mean anything, really.” 

“It does, kind of—“

Zayn reaches out and touches him then. He runs a finger over the words and the skin there is so sensitive and feels so vulnerable that it makes Louis shudder in an involuntary way. Zayn smells nice, like cloves and spice. Like his scarf. Louis moves his arm away.

“Your hands are _freezing_.”

Zayn pulls back.

“Sorry…they get like that when I haven’t eaten.”

Louis opens his eyes and peers up at him.

“I thought you were eating when I uh…interrupted.”

“I’d kind of just started.”

Louis doesn’t move. He just watches Zayn, but his face is unreadable in the dim light and at this weird angle.

“Are you hungry? Do you need to eat?”

Zayn doesn’t meet his eye. He just shrugs.

“Nah. I’ve gone longer.” He yawns and taps at Louis’ forehead with two fingers. “My turn. Sheryl Crow or Sharon Van Etten?”

Louis considers.

“I…don’t know the second one.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“No…I’m stumped.”

He feels Zayn stirring, like he’s getting up.

“I can’t believe I’m like a million years old and I’m cooler than you.”

“Are you really?”

“What?” Zayn has slipped off the sofa and is fiddling with the stereo, plugging his phone into the aux cord.

“Are you really a million years old?”

Zayn gives him that look again. Long-suffering and exasperated. Louis likes it, which is a funny thing that’s just dawned on him.

“No. That would make me a _literal_  caveman. I thought you were a history major. I told you, I’m only like a few hundred years old.”

“Oh thank god.” He watches Zayn work. “That’s a pretty slick phone for a geezer.”

Zayn starts up some music and adjusts the volume. He leaves his iphone on the shelf next to the stack of LP’s.

“Yeah, I’ve only just got one of them this past year. I’m not like…an early adopter.”

Zayn sits down carefully, and now his leg is just touching the top of Louis’ head. The place where the two of them connect is small, just a few centimeters of contact, but it’s like the biggest thing Louis has ever felt. He thinks of those weird models in the science books that illustrate a person’s perceived shape. The ones that are all fingertips and lips and eyes. Everywhere the nerves and tiny vessels gather. He feels like that a little.  Like every nerve in his body is turning toward the place where Zayn is touching him.

“I used to have one of those flip phones, before I got it.”

“Hmmm.” Louis closes his eyes and listens. Piano and guitar. A woman’s voice, a little mournful and slow.

“I miss playing the snake game.”

They lie there for a song or two and Louis feels heavy. Like he’s sinking down into the couch. Like he’s melting again. The music is thick and encompassing, like a warm blanket or a summer day. He sinks and he sinks and then he feels himself making an involuntary noise and he’s being jarred awake when he didn’t even know he’d drifted off. He feels a pressure at his temple, a hand brushing over the top of his head.

“Are you alright?”

Louis shakes his head.

“This is like…snogging music.” He yawns. He feels too soft. Like he could say anything. Like he’s dreaming. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

“Ha.”

“It’s not working. I’m falling asleep.”

“That’s okay.”

“I’m just going to rest my eyes for a minute.”

Zayn’s hand is resting on his head, then it’s running through his hair, his fingers dragging over Louis’ scalp lightly.

“Go ahead.”

He lets the music and the movement of Zayn’s hand pull him under.

 

___

 

When he wakes up, Zayn is gone.

The music is still playing, the same voice and the same chords that have been insinuating themselves into his dreams as he slept, so it can’t have been long. Louis sits up, rubbing at his jaw, his eyes adjusting to the dim light.

_…every time the sun comes up, I’m in trouble…_

There’s an interruption, a small break in the music, and Louis see the screen of Zayn’s phone go bright for an instant. So he’s not _gone_ gone. He looks at the window and the soft grey light of the afternoon is peeking through a crack in the curtain.

“Zayn?”

There’s no answer. He tugs the blanket off the back of the sofa and wraps it around his shoulders like a cape. Stands up off the sofa and shuffles into the toilet. No Zayn. He pees, struggling to keep the blanket out of the way and feeling ridiculous, then looks in the mirror and sorts his hair out. It’s gone all tall on one side and flat on the other. He looks like a person who’s had a proper kip. Feels like it too.

He tugs the blanket tighter around him and walks to the kitchen and that’s where he finds Zayn.

“Zayn?”

He’s leaning at the end of the counter, sort of pressed up into the corner. The side of his head is touching the wall and he’s covering his face with a hand like he’s got a headache or something, like he’s in pain.

“Hey…” 

“I’m ok, I’m just…” He doesn’t move his hand away, he talks through it. Doesn’t open his eyes. “I’ll be fine.”

Louis approaches him slowly, hesitantly, like he’s not certain he should. Reaches up and tugs at his hand.

“Look at me. You don’t look okay.”

His skin is cold when Louis pulls his hand away from his face. It’s like touching a dead body. Like grasping a hand that’s reaching up out of a grave. His face looks a little hollow and much too pale and it’s all so pathetic, Louis wants to laugh. That would be terrible though, that would be cruel, so he just pulls Zayn into a hug and Zayn softens. Lets himself be held.

“Come sit, okay?”

Zayn nods against his shoulder, and his nose feels cold too, like a little block of ice attached to his face. Louis shivers a bit at the sensation, at the chill creeping through the thin fabric of his tee shirt. They make their way back to the sofa and they sit and Zayn crumples a bit, like he’s collapsing into himself, and Louis keeps one arm around him, holding him by the shoulders, sort of half covering him with the blanket. He looks over at the window again, down at Zayn’s hand resting there between them, pale and soft and open and cold. Looks at his own hand, at the blue veins. The pink flush of his own palm.

“Hey.”

“I’m sorry, this is…embarrassing.”

Louis reaches down and holds Zayn’s hand in his, tries to will some of his heat into Zayn’s flesh. Like he could transfer energy through the skin. But that’s not how it works, is it? That’s not the way Zayn’s made.

Louis takes one deep breath. Closes his eyes and listens for a moment to the sound of his own body. The ringing in his head and the rush of blood pumping through his veins. He never thinks about it really, how much he’s got in there, moving around, coursing through him.

“I want you to bite me.”

Zayn’s hand is gone in an instant, pulled away like Louis’ burned him.

“That’s a terrible idea.”

“Why?”

“I told you why.”

“What, because I’ll start eating bugs or whatever?”

Zayn laughs and it sounds a little choked.

“No, I don’t want like…make it weird.”

“You don’t even like me. It’ll be fine.”

It sounds like the least convincing thing he’s ever said, and for a moment he thinks that maybe Zayn’s right, that they shouldn’t and that he won’t, and Louis realizes very suddenly that it would be a disappointment if they didn’t. It’s not even about the blood, really. It’s not the biting. He just wants Zayn’s mouth on him. Has wanted that for a while now probably. Zayn is shaking his head.

“I like you just fine.”

“Okay…I like you just fine too, so let me help you.”

Zayn doesn’t answer. He’s just sitting there, staring down at his hands.

“Look…it doesn’t have to be weird, ok? We’re pretending everything is normal, right? You just like…came home with me and we spent the day together and you put on some fucking emotional snogging music and it…worked or whatever and now I’d like to snog you. So just—“

“Oh god.” Zayn drops his face into his hands.

“No…not oh god. It’s fine. I want to do this.”

“That’s what worries me.” His voice is muffled by his hands.

“What? You’re worried I like you too much? You’re worried I’ll get attached and follow you around like a puppy and beg you to make me into—“

“Shut up. No...that’s like the opposite of what....”

Louis feels something turn inside him.

“But it won’t be like that...” He reaches out for Zayn. Tugs his hands away from his face. “You can’t stand me.”

Zayn lets himself be moved. Louis holds his hands and edges closer to him and studies his face. The angles of it. The way his skin looks a little gilded even when he’s sallow and hungry. His eyelashes and the curve of his lips and yeah, he definitely wants to snog Zayn. Zayn the person or Zayn the monster or whatever. Just Zayn.

He holds one arm out with the wrist turned up. Offers it.

“You said it didn’t hurt, right?”

Zayn reaches out tentatively and holds Louis’ hand. The lightest touch. He runs a frigid finger over the thin skin of his wrist and Louis thinks he might be shaking a little. Thinks they’re both shaking, which doesn’t jive with the whole casual narrative he’s trying to concoct. This isn’t a big deal. All of it is okay.

Zayn sighs quietly and tugs at Louis’ wrist…brings it up to his mouth and brushes it with his lips, so lightly it tickles. Then he drops Louis’ hand and turns to face him. Looks him right in the eye like he’s trying to suss something out in his expression. Louis wants to look away, but he holds Zayn’s gaze instead. Tries to put every ounce of determination he’s got into it.

Zayn reaches out and taps the side of Louis’ throat with two fingers.

“It’s better here. I won’t have to work so hard. It’ll go quicker.”

Louis reaches up and touches the place Zayn’s marked with his fingertips. Pushes into the mess of veins and muscles and skin. He imagines Zayn’s lips pressed against his neck and something flutters in his gut like a bird taking flight. He swallows.

“Alright. What do I…”

“Nothing. You don’t have to do anything. Just…let me do the work.”

“Okay…” Louis drops his hand into his lap. “and we’ll snog after?”

Zayn laughs and it makes his face sort of light up, like he’s coming to life. Suddenly nothing feels very serious. Like all the strange tension has gone out of the room.

“Yeah. We can snog after. I’ll uh…pretty definitely be in the mood for that.”

“Cool. Okay.” Louis shuts his eyes and bites down on his lip. “Hit me. I’m ready.”

Zayn snakes one hand around the back of Louis’ neck, holding him still.

“Be patient. I’ve got to work up to it.”

“What? Why? Just bite me.”

Zayn presses at the side of Louis’ head, tilting him just so, and Louis obliges.

“I’m not doing the _thing_ , so I want to be certain I’m not hurting you.”

“The roofie thing you mean?”

“Yeah. The roofie th--don't call it that. Just…hold still. This is gonna feel weird.”

Louis doesn’t budge. He can feel his heart beating against his ribs like a caged animal, adrenaline pumping through his body. Every little touch is electric. Zayn moves his head closer and his breath tickles Louis’ neck and Louis braces himself for a shock. For a poke or a tear or a cutting pain or god knows what.

Then Zayn starts licking him. It’s weird and wet and unexpected and kind of hot but mostly strange. He’s going at it in long wide laps, like a cat grooming its mate.

“Um…what—“

“I’ve got to get it ready.” Zayn’s voice is muffled, vibrating against Louis’ skin. He keeps licking, and something about it is hypnotic. It tickles a bit in a way Louis feels down to his toes, and then it doesn’t tickle much at all. He can barely feel it.

“Whoa.”

Zayn pulls back and looks at Louis, like he’s trying to read him.

“Sorry if that was...”

Louis shakes his head but doesn’t move. Keeps his neck exposed, waiting.

“S’alright. Just wasn’t expecting to get a tongue bath today. Wasn’t on my agenda, like.”

“It makes it hurt less.”

“Okay.”

“I’m gonna bite you for real now. Are you ready?”

Louis’ heart is racing in his chest. He nods and Zayn inches closer. Pauses.

“And there’s more licking after. To close it up, like.”

Louis feels his breath hitch.

“Yeah okay.”

But Zayn doesn’t move. He’s just sitting there, on the verge of something. Like he’s thinking it through.

“It might feel sort of…er...” He makes a pained face, like he’s embarrassed. “It might get...intense. Like in an _intimate_ kind of--”

“I’m alright, I promise.”

“Just didn’t want you to be like…surprised—“

“I’m good. I’m great. Just fucking _bite_ me. Jesus.”

Zayn laughs and it sounds a little high and reedy.

“Don’t _yell_ at me. God, you’re annoying. We’ll get there, I’m just like…nervous. It’s been a while.”

“You just did it last _night_.”

“That wasn’t the same thing.”

“Oh…” Louis swallows. He can feel blood filling his cheeks. “Well…me too, then.”

“What?”

“Shut up. Nothing. I don’t know what I’m saying. Let’s just get on with it.”

Zayn nods, and he looks like he wants to say something more, but he thinks better of it. He leans forward and presses his lips against Louis’ throat, there above the jugular. Gives it one more long lick for good measure and mutters something that sounds like “thank you” and then it’s done.

It doesn’t feel anything like a bite. It’s not a tearing or a break or a rupture. It’s more like a…clicking into place. There’s a pinch and a rush of blood to the head and it’s like Zayn has plugged right into Louis’ system. Like they’re a part of the same continuous being. Louis can feel the blood coursing through his body and out through his throat and he can feel Zayn, too. Can feel the whole of him, and it’s ecstatic. It’s like coming home. For a moment Louis knows what it’s like to live forever and his mind is filled with disparate images and sensations that don’t belong to him. A grey sky, the scent of burning oil, a black expanse of ocean, fireworks blooming in the night, a forest, the heat of a crowded room, the smell of blood, but not blood that’s spilled, the smell of blood flowing through a person, warm and sweet and alive, the sensation of being swallowed, the feeling of being fucked, the heat of the sun hitting your skin and burning you up—it’s all too much and it’s not enough at the same time and Louis reaches a hand up and tangles it in Zayn’s hair, pulls him close and thinks _more more more_ and then it’s done, way too soon. Zayn pulls up and off of him and the bond is broken and Louis makes a small sad sound, feels like he’s lost something essential, like he’s been given something to grieve.

He falls against the arm of the sofa and his breath is ragged in his chest. Zayn follows him backward, landing sort of half on top of him, his hand still clutching the back of Louis’ neck.

“Hold still, I’ve got to fix you.”

There’s something trickling down toward his collar, warm and wet, and then Zayn’s tongue is on him again, lapping at his throat. Louis lets it happen. Softens into it. It feels odd, like the skin where Zayn’s bitten him is going tight, pulling into itself.

“Holy fuck.”

“Yeah?”

“That was…the weirdest thing.”

“Bad weird?” Zayn moves his mouth over Louis’ throat and his lips are warm. The tip of his nose feels like it’s burning.

“Good. Really good weird. I feel like…”

“Endorphins.”

“Oh. Ha.”

Louis laughs and reaches up. Puts a palm flat on the side of Zayn’s face, feels his jaw working as he moves his tongue, the blood coursing through him and the heat in his cheeks.

“You’re really fucking hot.”

Zayn laughs against his throat.

“Thanks.”

“No I mean…you feel all alive.”

“I _am_ alive.”

“Are we going to snog now?”

Zayn kisses his throat, the line of his jaw, his chin.

“Yeah.”

“Get in—“

“Shhhh.”

Zayn kisses him on the mouth, and Louis thinks he might burn right up.

They kiss until Louis’ lips feel raw and they explore each other and everything is where it’s meant to be. It’s all perfectly normal. Zayn’s not a monster under his clothes, he’s just a person with soft skin and a pleasing sort of shape and Louis presses his lips to the different parts of him and lets Zayn run his fingers over all the bits of Louis that feel the most vulnerable. He doesn’t feel dangerous. There’s a moment, just a single moment, when Zayn’s got his mouth around Louis’ cock and it’s like _transcendently_ good. His mouth is so soft and he still feels so warm from the blood and for an instant Louis thinks of his teeth and the damage they’ve done and how they’re millimeters from the tenderest part of him and it causes a sort of momentary cognitive dissonance. He bites down on his own palm to keep from laughing nervously, and Zayn looks up at him and he looks so good that Louis falls apart a little. There’s something about the softness in his eyes and the knowledge of the violence he’s capable of. Louis shuts his eyes and comes harder than he maybe ever has before. It’s like Zayn’s properly drained him of his life force. Like he’s literally dying.

They don't leave the sofa, after. Louis moves just enough to retrieve the smokes off the table and they share one, passing it back and forth quietly. Louis watches the smoke curl up and away from them and he thinks he could fall asleep again like this, tangled up together.

“You taste good. Like, even better than I thought.”

Louis feels himself blushing, then he laughs.

“Than you _thought_?"

“Yeah…”

Louis is lost in that for moment, the idea that Zayn’s looked at him and wondered--

“I…can’t figure out if you mean my blood or…”

“Both. All of it.”

“Oh. Thanks I guess..”

“Thank _you_.”

There’s a buzzing and Zayn’s phone rattles against the record player.

“Aw fuck.”

Louis covers his face in protest. “Noooo...It’s probably Harry.”

Zayn extends one arm, reaching futilely across the room.

“It’s so far away.” He lets his arm drop. Drapes it over Louis’ chest. “Ha. Just like your tattoo.”

“Are all vampires as lazy as you?”

“Maybe. I dunno. Will you go get it?”

“ _What_?”

“Please?”

Louis hands the cigarette over and rolls his eyes.

"Christ. Yes, master.”

Zayn laughs and pushes Louis toward the edge of the sofa.

“That’s awful, don’t do that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I hate you.”

Louis rolls off the sofa and does his pants up. He feels all sleepy and rumpled. He suddenly remembers giving blood at school last year, the way they handed him a cup of juice and a biscuit after. He thinks he’d like to eat something. That sounds fucking great. He picks Zayn’s phone up off the shelf and looks it over. There’s a missed call and a series of messages from Harry.

 

_Zayn why aren’t you answering?_

_Zaaaaaayn. I can’t get Lou on the phone did you actually kill him?_

_Niall says he asked Louis if you snogged and he didn’t answer_

_ZAYN_

_We’re heading to Lou’s. If you’re there with him I’m going to LOSE MY MIND._

 

“Shit.”

“What?”

“We’re going to have company in a minute here.”

“What??”

“They’re coming over. You should uh…put a shirt on.”

Zayn sits up and starts moving blankets and cushions around on the sofa.

“I don’t know where it _went_. God...Why are they _like_ this?”

“They’re nosey and persistent.”

“Aha.” Zayn tugs his shirt out from under the blanket and slips it over his head.

Louis retrieves his shirt off of the floor and puts it on, and then he just stands there. He’s not sure what to do. He’s not sure what comes next, now that they’re dressed and their friends are on the way. Now that the day is turning over and the light coming through the curtains is fading and the space around them is changing.

“It’s nearly dark. You can leave soon.”

Zayn glances over at the window.

“Yeah.”

“Where are you going to go? Once you’re not trapped here anymore?”

Zayn watches him from the sofa.

The buzzer by the door goes off then, loud and invasive and insistent. Then again, and again twice more. Harry’s doing a number on it. Zayn waits for the noise to die down and then he stands and faces the door, waiting.

“Dunno,” he says. “I guess I’ll see when we get there.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Jamie for the quick and thorough beta and for correcting me every time I called the sofa a couch. You are the real MVP. All mistakes are mine.


End file.
